Dorothy Bendel
Murmuration
Starlings move across the sky in black
clouds, a massive organism made of tiny heartbeats. A girl walks
away from her home when backs are turned, until she
no longer recognizes the houses set on manicured lawns, until a surge of
cold air pricks the plumage at the nape of her neck. Some starlings migrate
long distances, some stick close to familiar lands to roost. The girl watches
starlings fly closer, then farther, and thinks of the vacuum that terrified
her when she was little, how it moved but went nowhere, yet devoured
everything in its path. The girl recalls how she dreamed of vacuuming
up her father, his body flattening and elongating the closer she moved
toward him, the terrible contraption roaring, until his entire body
disappeared under the machine's rectangular head. She remembers
how, in his last moment, she heard a soft peep—like an accidentally stepped-on
mouse—echo through the vast living room, clean. Starlings, to the girl, seem
brave because they are one but not alone. The girl leaves home for good
when she is no longer afraid of the vacuum, or her father, when one more open
hand pushes her out of her nest, to fall for a boy who moves along the edges
of sky where the air is thin. The girl and the boy land wherever they
please, relying on neurons and hitched rides to migrate from one
temporary shelter to another. A couch in a crowded
apartment. An attic in an abandoned house where
the windows crack open to spiders and stars. The girl and the boy laugh
when they talk about animals choosing to be still, hum low as they purl
into each other and out again, whisper as though they are being
hunted. Like humans, birds have four-chambered hearts. Smaller birds
tend to have larger hearts, unlike humans. The girl presses her
hand to her chest when the walls close in and she cannot
breathe. A heart murmur is
a stutter, a moaning, imperfection. The girl adjusts, takes
refuge among others with clipped wings, takes furniture
from the street, accepts kindness when she can find it. The girl dresses
up a crumbling apartment while the boy flicks cigarette ashes on
the floor and murmurs what he thinks she won't hear, his iridescence
waning. The girl thinks of her great-grandmother cradling her
suitcase across an ocean under the same sky, the trill of
her heart as she drifted toward L’Isola dell Lagrime—Island of Tears–to a strange
land where she would lose her name but never the music of her mother
tongue. Starlings sing to entice, to warn. They sometimes mimic
other birds. Their appearance can change without
fully molting. The girl sings to herself, tries
to see the faraway shore. Starlings will scavenge and eat
almost anything. They invade crevices to nest. Starlings are often viewed as pests or
bullies who mistreat other birds. The boy’s feather
Murmuration
Starlings move across the sky in black
clouds, a massive organism made of tiny heartbeats. A girl walks
away from her home when backs are turned, until she
no longer recognizes the houses set on manicured lawns, until a surge of
cold air pricks the plumage at the nape of her neck. Some starlings migrate
long distances, some stick close to familiar lands to roost. The girl watches
starlings fly closer, then farther, and thinks of the vacuum that terrified
her when she was little, how it moved but went nowhere, yet devoured
everything in its path. The girl recalls how she dreamed of vacuuming
up her father, his body flattening and elongating the closer she moved
toward him, the terrible contraption roaring, until his entire body
disappeared under the machine's rectangular head. She remembers
how, in his last moment, she heard a soft peep—like an accidentally stepped-on
mouse—echo through the vast living room, clean. Starlings, to the girl, seem
brave because they are one but not alone. The girl leaves home for good
when she is no longer afraid of the vacuum, or her father, when one more open
hand pushes her out of her nest, to fall for a boy who moves along the edges
of sky where the air is thin. The girl and the boy land wherever they
please, relying on neurons and hitched rides to migrate from one
temporary shelter to another. A couch in a crowded
apartment. An attic in an abandoned house where
the windows crack open to spiders and stars. The girl and the boy laugh
when they talk about animals choosing to be still, hum low as they purl
into each other and out again, whisper as though they are being
hunted. Like humans, birds have four-chambered hearts. Smaller birds
tend to have larger hearts, unlike humans. The girl presses her
hand to her chest when the walls close in and she cannot
breathe. A heart murmur is
a stutter, a moaning, imperfection. The girl adjusts, takes
refuge among others with clipped wings, takes furniture
from the street, accepts kindness when she can find it. The girl dresses
up a crumbling apartment while the boy flicks cigarette ashes on
the floor and murmurs what he thinks she won't hear, his iridescence
waning. The girl thinks of her great-grandmother cradling her
suitcase across an ocean under the same sky, the trill of
her heart as she drifted toward L’Isola dell Lagrime—Island of Tears–to a strange
land where she would lose her name but never the music of her mother
tongue. Starlings sing to entice, to warn. They sometimes mimic
other birds. Their appearance can change without
fully molting. The girl sings to herself, tries
to see the faraway shore. Starlings will scavenge and eat
almost anything. They invade crevices to nest. Starlings are often viewed as pests or
bullies who mistreat other birds. The boy’s feather